Proof
by Vinniey
Summary: Tim is dangling off the edge, and you can only hit rock bottom so many times before you can't climb back up.


**_Disclaimer: _**_I do not own DC Comics or anything associated with the company. I only own my writing and original ideas. No copyright infringement intended._

* * *

**_Author's Note: _**_Okay, so this really hurt to write. I can't believe I wrote this. And the fact that I wrote this to my ultimate OTP just kills me even more. Because in a sense, this fits them. If only I can see that, then so be it. But to me, it fits. I just- I don't even- I have no clue- just- Ugh. I don't know what this is, really, but it is what it is… whatever that is. So with that said, I hope you enjoy this, if only moderately._

_-_ Kay

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**Schizophrenia:** _a mental disorder characterized by a breakdown of thought processes and by poor emotional responsiveness. It most commonly features Auditory hallucinations, paranoid or bizarre delusions, or disorganized speech and thinking._

* * *

**Proof**_  
Chapter 1: Enough_  
((Started: October 2nd/Finished: October 5th))

Tim doesn't really know when it all started, doesn't really even care. But he does know that it happened, and he's spiraling down. Hard.

Part of him wants it to stop, but the other doesn't. And he can't even tell how often he's given in to the latter, given in and enjoyed the ride down to the bottom. But the second his feet touches the dark, cold ground, he's scared. So very scared, but he can't help but stay at the bottom.

Because it's home. It's been home since the very beginning, and because of that, he doesn't want it to change. He doesn't know who he is, really, or what he's truly supposed to be, but he does know one thing. If his "home" is taken away from him, then he loses a part of himself, a part of the fragile foundation he had placed down. If he loses "home…"

He dies.

But if he stays at "home," he also dies.

So what's the right way to go? The right thing to do? Is there a point?

(Yes. There's always a point. Even if it seems _pointless_.)

Tim doesn't know when it started, doesn't really care. But he knows it happened, and he lives on that fact; thrives on it; dies on it.

* * *

Tim recalls a time that he had taken pictures of the sun setting over the ocean, shades of pink, orange, and red spewing across the sky in a breathtaking manner. He had snapped seemingly flawless pictures of the scenery, and he had placed them in a scrapbook labeled "Landscapes." As he was putting the final pictures in one of the pages, Stephanie had appeared at his side.

"Those are so _beautiful_," she breathed. "Did you take these?" she had asked, to which she received a curt nod from the boy. "They're so amazing. It's almost as if a professional took them. They're really good." Tim only shrugged before closing the book.

"It's nothing. I'm just an amateur. It's only a hobby, after all." Steph shook her head in response.

"You don't give yourself enough credit. They don't look like they were taken in a 'hobby manner.'" Tim stood from his seat, the scrapbook tucked securely under his arm.

"If you say so," he replied before he walked away, failing to notice the frown on the girl's face as she watched him leave the room.

_Only an amateur._

* * *

Another time, he remembered sparring with Dick. It was a long, tiring match that seemed to go on forever, yet at the same time, it didn't last as long as it should have. Every punch, every kick, every jab _hurt_. Hurt as if they were hitting Tim in every spot that mattered, yet it wasn't deep enough. Wasn't deep enough to hit his core and break everything.

Nothing was ever enough.

And with every jab and kick Tim was able to land on Dick, he started to feel excitement race through his veins; pride, even. The fact that he was able to even nail Dick in spots showed that Tim was improving at making openings, and he began to feel even just a bit happy at the thought.

So when the session was over with, and Tim was toweling his damp hair, Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder, to what the younger boy deemed to be one of pride; respect.

"You did well," Bruce said. "You had Dick on his toes." Suddenly, everything was gone. The pride, the joy, the _excitement_, gone. All gone. Instead, the black hole appeared again, threatening everything.

Tim shrugged.

"He gave me those openings. I didn't really do anything." The nonchalant reply caused Bruce's brow to furrow.

"No, Tim. You earned those shots fairly and-" Tim picked up his bag from the floor and slung it around his shoulder before he began to walk up the stairs.

"He went easy on me, Bruce. I did _nothing_."

He could practically feel the cold stare of the dark knight burning into his back.

_I didn't do anything._

* * *

Tim even remembers looking into the mirror one day and glaring hard at his reflection. He may not know who he's supposed to be, or who he really wants to be, but he does know that the person in the mirror is _him_.

"Him" being who the world sees, who the world _doesn't_ want.

Who the world _doesn't_ need.

So he berates himself. He says horrible, horrible things, and he feels better. Even if only a little. It's a terrible habit, but he feels at _home_. Like it's where he's supposed to be, even if it's not anywhere near it.

"You're pathetic," he tells himself, and it's true. Be it a cliché, but it's true. "All of your work is worthless; anyone can do better than you. Compared to everything else, you're meaningless, like a little bug," he tells the boy in the mirror. And he feels _good_. Feels the black hole within him expand, and it eggs him on.

"You will never find yourself. You will never belong. No one will ever want you, want to understand you. No one will ever _love you_." And as he fully looks in the mirror, he finally notices a figure in the room.

Dick stands there in the doorway, eyes full of sadness as he stares at Tim, frozen to the ground. And Tim turns his head to look at him, his face and eyes blank of emotion, as he opens his mouth.

"No one," he repeats.

And the black hole consumes him for everything he is.

* * *

Dick had dragged Tim out of his room and sat him down at the kitchen table, demanding to have a talk; a talk that Tim had no desire to have. Dick folded his hands over the table, his eyes glazed with unshed tears. The emotion in his eyes were so _strong_, that they were screaming at Tim.

_Why? Why?_

Tim watched as Dick's jaw clenched before he spoke.

"Why do you say and do such hateful things to yourself?" he finally asked, his voice strained. At that moment, Tim knew that Dick cared. Cared more than all of the others put together.

Tim looked at him with eyes filled with so many different emotions that it was difficult to pinpoint which ones were even there. And Tim spoke.

"Because it gives me hope that someone will prove me wrong." The younger boy watched as the elder's expression changed; to what, though, Tim couldn't tell.

"Who is this 'someone' then?" he had asked.

"I don't know," Tim replied. And he didn't, just like he hardly knew anything at all. At his answer, the younger boy almost thought a tear would escape Dick's eyes, but the elder only sniffled and blinked rapidly, willing the tears to subside. He looked deeply into Tim's eyes, and Tim knew that the older boy cared.

"Are you okay?" Dick asked. A stupid question, but one that needed to be asked. Tim replied almost automatically, without thinking.

"I'm fine." Dick had stared at him for a while, before speaking once more.

"Are you sure?"

But he didn't care enough.

Tim inwardly sighed before he nodded.

"Yes." Dick was reluctant to let the younger boy go, but he did. That doesn't mean that he didn't keep an eye on him, but he let him go. And Tim fell even deeper.

Sometimes, when Tim said "I'm fine," he wanted someone to look him in the eyes and say "Tell me the truth." Because that would show him that that person saw straight through him, knew what was best for him, knew _him_. That the person cared for him _enough_.

But no one would ever tell him that, and Tim would never ask anyone to.

So he would only keep feeding the black hole.

* * *

He doesn't know when it started, but he knows it happened. And by the time Jason comes around, he's on the edge and is barely standing. He needs help, but he refuses any sort of it and drifts away from everyone and everything.

He's _lost_.

And even if everyone else can't see that, Jason can.

And he'd never admit it, but it _scares_ him. Scares him to see his replacement like that. Even with just one look at the younger boy, the antihero can tell just how bad it is. Can tell it in his blank, empty blue eyes; his pale white skin that can rival the stars at night; his paper-thin torso that seems to slim with each passing day.

And his soul that just screams out _Help me_ that no one can hear.

No one, except Jason.

* * *

So when Tim goes out during sunset one evening and snaps some photos of the oversized star, he sits at the table where Steph had first complimented his work. Only this time, it was Jason who saw them.

He whistled at the pictures, and Tim turned his head to the left in order to find the source; only, to his misfortune, Jason was standing _right there_. So close that his nose was only centimeters from touching the belt loop on Jason's jeans. The smell of leather and smoke wafted towards Tim's nose, intoxicating him, and he found the urge to lean closer bubbling within him.

_No_.

_No_, he told himself. He couldn't. _Wouldn't_.

No.

Instead, he looked up and found the older boy tracing one of the photos with his index finger.

"You have good aim, pretender," he stated. Almost instantly, Tim's wall was fully active and his defense mechanisms came into play.

"I'm not really that good. Anyone could do better." That earned him a snort, a reply he wasn't used to.

"Cut the bullshit, replacement. This is good, and you know it. Don't say otherwise." And when Jason looked at the younger boy, he saw something that made his heart pick up its pace, and strangely was not due to anger. He saw a light shade of red tinting the pale, pale skin of Tim's cheeks.

A blush.

A blush graced Tim's skin, and Jason knew that his words affected Tim deeply. And he felt a sense of pride.

For his words meant something to the younger boy who was losing himself everyday.

And when he left the room, Tim found himself tracing the same photo Jason had traced just moments ago.

* * *

Another day passes by, and Tim's sparring with Jason. Jason and Dick's fighting styles are different. Dick is more elegant, graceful, defensive, manipulative even. And Jason is more destructive, violent, explosive, and even a bit mad. But they both have one thing in common: they're _painful_.

But every punch, kick, and jab that Jason connects with a part of Tim feels like it's breaking open. Every hit punches through the surface and hits his core ever so painfully. Because it's _enough_. It's enough to break him.

And Tim _loves_ it.

And it eggs him on to fight back. So he jabs and kicks, and delight fills his core when they connect with Jason. The black hole disappears for a while, and Tim almost feels happy, even when he hears a curse from his sparring partner.

The fight seems to go on forever, but it doesn't go on for long enough.

So when they decided to call it even for the night, Tim walks over to his bag and begins to wipe all the sweat from his body. And he hears Jason curse.

"Damn, kid. You sure do know how to pack a punch. Gave me a run for my money for a little while." Tim almost smiled, but then the hole reappeared, and his expression went blank.

"Not really. You went easy on me." Bad move. That comment pissed Jason off more than it probably should have.

"Fuck off," he said. "I didn't go _easy_ on you. If I said you gave me a run for my money, then you _did_. Give yourself some more damn credit." And then he left Tim alone in the cave, his eyes slightly wide.

Then, he went back to towel-drying himself.

* * *

The next time Tim finds himself in front of a mirror, he doesn't say anything; not a single word. Instead, he only stares at his reflection before walking away. What use were words anyway? However, his mind was racing. He was unstable, that much was for sure. He didn't understand anything at all anymore, not that he really ever understood from the beginning, and now things were worse.

That bothered him more than anything.

Tim collided with a firm chest, and the scent of leather and smoke filled his nose once more, and he had to steel himself in order to not lean into the figure. Gloved hands pulled Tim away, and the younger boy could feel eyes burning into his head as he cast his head down.

He couldn't meet his eyes, for some reason. Not now.

Irritation flooded Jason's senses, and he nearly growled. But he didn't. Instead, he grabbed Tim and moved them into the living room. He forced Tim to sit on the couch, and Jason sat right next to him, their thighs a hair apart from touching. Still, Tim refused to meet the elder's eyes. Jason folded his hands and leaned his elbows on his knees. A heavy sigh escaped his lips before he carefully watched the teen.

"Why are you doing this?" he finally asked. And Tim suddenly knew he cared. The teen looked at their legs. Nearly touching, but not quite. Without looking away, he responded.

"Because it gives me hope that someone will prove me wrong," he answered, just like he had answered Dick that one time.

"Geez, you little shit," the older boy said as he ran a hand through his hair. He sighed and looked at Tim, but the latter refused to make any eye contact. Jason lightly rubbed his hands together, giving them slight warmth. Tim really wanted to feel that warmth, for he was cold. Freezing. But he didn't ask. Would never ask. He saw the hands stop and figured that Jason would start speaking again.

"Are you okay? Stupid question, I know, but…" But a needed one. And Tim knew that he cared.

"I'm fine," he said, turning to look Jason in the eyes. Powerful, blue-green eyes, the color of the sea, stared deeply into fragile, crystal blue eyes. And Tim could see soft lips moving at the bottom of his vision.

"Tell me the _truth_," Jason said. And Tim knew that Jason cared _enough_. And the second he saw Jason move his hand out to him, palm open, _It's okay_…

Tim broke down.

Jason was that someone. That someone who would prove him wrong.

* * *

Tim knew he was in love. When he realized this, he isn't too sure, but he can clearly see the signs starting from when Jason first saw his photographs. Tim almost smiled at that memory.

_Almost_.

Then, the black hole appeared again, and he found himself spiraling down once more.

He can't love. He's not allowed to love. No one can love him, and no one ever will. His illusion of Jason's love can never be.

But he can't help but want Jason to compliment him in some way. Because when it all comes down to it, no matter what anyone says, Tim will never get better. No one's opinion will change him; no one's… except Jason's.

But Tim doesn't want to change because if he changes, his "home," his foundation, will disappear. And then he'll die.

But then if he lets the black hole consume him, then he still dies.

He can't win.

But Tim can't help himself when he's sitting on one end of the couch with Jason at the other end, the tv playing a movie Tim can't even remember the name to. He can't help himself when he reaches a hand out to the older boy, who takes it with a smile on his face and pulls the younger boy into his side.

Like it should be.

* * *

Jason loves Tim, and he knows Tim loves him as well. It's no secret, really. He also knows that Tim is aware of his love as well.

But Jason won't make the first move. It's not his choice.

Everyone argues, disagrees with him. They say that he's only hurting the younger teen, that he's leading him on. But Jason _knows_ what Tim _needs_.

Tim needs to make the first move. Needs to overcome his inner darkness.

And he can't do that if Jason says _I love you_ first. No, Tim has to be the first one who says it. Or else Tim will never get better; he'll only keep falling. And you can only hit rock bottom so many times before you can't climb back up again.

So Jason waits. Painfully? Yes. But he waits.

And as time passes, he begins to realize that he'll be waiting forever, because no matter how much of an influence he has on Tim's life, it's up to Tim to change.

And Tim doesn't _want_ to change.

And that fact kills Jason every time he looks at the other boy. Feels his heart breaking with each passing second. But he says nothing, because he still _knows_ what Tim _needs_.

And Tim. Tim is broken. Broken to what he believes is beyond repair.

He lays in the corner of his room, curled on his side and his hands clutching his hair in a desperate manner. His mind is racing and he doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know who he is or who he's supposed to be. But he does know what he wants, which is also what he can't have.

Love.

Love is forbidden for him, for no one can love him. Jason can't love him. Yes, he _knows _that Jason returns his feelings, that it isn't unrequited; but it _should_ be.

He wants to love Jason. _Oh_, how he wants to love him. But it's so _hard_. It burns deep within his chest, a heavy weight that threatens to make him crash to the ground. He tried. God knows he tried.

But he _can't_.

And he realizes that Jason has figured it out. He can tell from the looks he receives from the older boy. The pain that is in his eyes, but the words _It's okay_ is reflected in them.

And Tim cries.

Cries so hard that his lungs convulse, and his stomach jerks painfully inside of him. His heart burns like a wildfire, and his head pounds profusely. He feels sick as his entire being breaks down, and he weeps harder when he feels strong, familiar arms pick him up and cradle him close to a firm chest.

He will never be okay; the scars are too deep for that.

And Jason will never be okay either, for Tim's scars are contagious, but Jason will stay by Tim's side. Even if it kills him. And that thought destroys every last piece of Tim because he knows it will end them both, one way or another.

Tim doesn't know when it started, and doesn't even care. He just knows that he wants it to _stop_.


End file.
